Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,65
of scenery might help me with my hallucinations. The house felt far too empty, the woods far too full. I wasn’t one to scare easily, and I would be able to defend myself if the occasion called for it, but I needed space from my laptop.
From the words on it.
The book I was becoming proud of and scared of right at the same time.
So, I soaked in the bath—washing off my filth, not pulling the blinds that gave me views of the forest and the forest views of me. I wanted to show it I wasn’t scared of it. Show myself too.
But I didn’t linger in the bath.
I told myself it was because I was anxious for the whisky and whatever awaited me at Deacon’s bar.
We hadn’t spoken since the altercation here last week. To be fair, I hadn’t even bothered to text or call him with an apology. Because I wasn’t exactly sorry. He wasn’t stupid, I hadn’t hidden who I was. He was a bartender, even if it was in a tiny town on the edge of a forest. He knew people. He’d seen things. Naïve, he was not.
It was going to be interesting to see whether he was one to hold a grudge. To hold on to that anger that had surprised me and scared me, just a little, because he had hidden that. A violent type of fury that didn’t care whether I was a woman or not an ex-Navy Seal or whatever it was. All he had saw—in that moment, at least—was someone who he wanted to hurt.
It was a cause to wonder, was there something there? Had I hit a nerve? Did women with the upper hand anger him to blackout? Rejection?
Sure, I didn’t really think he was pouring whiskys by day and butchering women on his days off, though that would make for a story.
He didn’t really fit the profile. Attractive to the point of sexy. Muscled. Strong. Sure of himself.
But I had been wrong before.
Just not about something that may or may not get me murdered by a bartender-turned-serial killer if I was right.
Nevertheless, I blow-dried my hair, put on leather pants so tight they looked sprayed on, stiletto boots, a cashmere sweater—black too—a strong winged liner, and a heavy coat.
It had snowed last night. Not enough to settle, but enough to promise a bitter winter and make the air take a bite out of you as soon as you stepped outside.
I liked that.
My car did not.
Driving back from Saint’s house this morning was not a fun time. He had not been happy I had flat-out refused his ride and suggested I needed a new car. I was inclined to agree, just not out loud.
It did survive the trip into town, which I was thankful for.
Now, I just hoped I survived the trip into the bar.
Chapter 13
“He liked watching her work. She got lost in it. So lost she didn’t notice he was there, right there, watching her. Imagining how her skin would open. What her screams might sound like bouncing off the trees. No one would hear them. Except him. It would be time. Soon. He hated himself for it all. But not enough to stop.”
It was busier than I’d seen it in early afternoon. I scrunched my nose, trying to think of what day it was. A weekend? Was that why more people seemed to be on the streets, smiling at me, greeting me, and generally acting horrifying.
I tended to forget the days of the week, since it didn’t matter what day it was. I didn’t have set days to write. No nine to five.
Thank god.
It might’ve killed me.
As it was, I routinely missed meetings, conferences, and any kind of date until I hired a competent assistant who resembled a drill sergeant. That was who was taking care of all of my affairs in New York. He knew how much I hated checking in with anyone, hence me only having received a handful of emails about important things. Which was why I paid him so much and planned on giving him any organs he ever needed.
I frowned at the chair I considered “mine” right at the bar and the person sitting in it. Sure, I’d only been in this town for over a month, but I felt a claim to that stool.
If I was honest, I felt a claim to this place in general.
This bar was not like the rest of the town. Not decorated with kitschy souvenirs, warm, welcoming.